All The Dirty Little Secrets

I am the root of all evil to a few people.
I'm too fucking vain to pass up a photo opportunity.
I'm obsessed with labels.
I can be a huge drama queen at times.
I'm defensive.
I don't like leaving the house without looking in a mirror.
I cry very easily.
I've hurt a lot of people.
I'm posessive of my friends.
I'm possessive of my girlfriend.
I'm allergic to avacados, but still eat them anyway.
I have attempted suicide eight times: Hanging twice, asphyxiation once, and overdose with various samples of my grandmother's prescriptions five times.
I love to dance in front of my mirror.
I have a facebook that I'm always updating. I have 134 friends.
I'm terrified of the dark.
I was molested at age three through four by my older half-brother. To this day, the only people who know are my closest friends.
I still wonder whether or not I'm a virgin.
I am an atheist.
I will get drunk in my own home when no one's around.
There are faint scars on my legs from cutting myself.
I plan for children in my future. I always have.
I have major problems with people who don't make an effort to make themselves look nice.
I have stalked my ex-boyfriend over facebook.
I am constantly looking for new ways to make myself look better.
I'm afraid to care about myself.
I have had ulcers in my stomach from stress levels four times in the last year.
I haven't cried about my grandma since the day of her death.
The word "Cunt" makes me physically sick.
My first kiss was Davy Rogers in fourth grade.
I find pleasure in the fact that I have caught people checking me out.
I am the definition of the word "pervert".
I watch porn.
I like both boys and girls.
I am very loud.
I put my opinions where they're not wanted.
I don't truly trust anyone. Not even my sister or my girlfriend.
I have talked about people behind their back.
Today I faked being sick so I could stay in the nurse's office and cry for the second half of the day.
Right now I am a major part in four court cases.
I am embarrassed by my mother's alcoholism.
I'm a coward.
I'm a bitch.
I'm an asshole.
I want to try marijuana.
Someday I plan to choreograph a burlesque show to the tune of Clare De Lune.
I sleep in my underwear.
There are five people in this world that I "Hate" and they are all politicians.
I have made snow-angels in the nude.
I have gone streaking through my neighborhood in the moonlight.
I love to skinny-dip.
I fish for compliments sometimes.
Every day I have to convince myself to get out of bed.
I have been anorexic and bulimic.
I have shoplifted from thrift stores.
I have flirted my way into hundreds of dollars of free merchandise.
I have never worn a push-up bra.
There are small scars on my breasts I don't know the origins of.
I have always wanted to dress like a whore. Just once.
There are seven holes in the walls of my house due to my rage.
I have heard voices in my head.
I draw hentai and keep it hidden in my room.
I don't know who my real friends are anymore.
I am very temperamental.
I have been dragged across a room by my hair by my father.
I have never had the time to be a true teenager.
90% of my smiles are fake.
I pretend to be happy so that people don't worry about me.
However, that usually backfires.
I can't remember half of my childhood.
There is a wall in my room where I put up everything on paper my friends have ever given me, from notes to scribbles to doodles to masterpieces.
My life story always ends with me crying.
I have gotten into fights that have involved my sister bashing my head into a wall until I lost consciousness.
I'm very wary of love.
There is nothing permanent in this world. Not even life.
I am terrified of other peoples' opinions of me.
I am transferring to Bayview for my senior year of high school for more reasons than just grades.
There are jars of money hidden in my room that I'm saving for a road trip with.
I have stopped four friends from committing suicide.
I don't like talking about myself verbally.
I don't like hearing that I'm nice.
I don't like hearing praise for fear of being seen as only caring about myself.
I was nearly raped seven months ago.
I find trusting people very hard.
I have been cheated on by the same guy four times, and each time was stupid enough to go back to him.
I broke up with my girlfriend last year because of the Seven Month Itch.
I only have one pair of pants.
I have a backpack filled with clothes, road maps and one hundred dollars should the nerve strike me to get up and leave.
My father has offered me vodka.
In third grade I was ground zero for the biggest lice epidemic my school district had ever seen.
I have a picture of Kisame taped to my ceiling. He is the only picture there.
I have been beaten up.
I have beaten the shit out of someone.
In October I had a nervous breakdown.
Because of that nervous breakdown I'm now in therapy, soon to be paired with medication.
I may be schizophrenic.
I have big feet.
I shave the hair off my toes and stomach.
I have carved religious symbols into the antique dresser passed down through my family.
There is a razor blade hidden in my desk.
I don't think I could survive without my dog.
I have burned myself on purpose.
I can't stop trying to improve myself for other people's needs and not my own.
There are times when I say things and automatically wish I hadn't.
I wish I were never born.
When I lived in Portland, three bullies would make me eat flowers and bugs in the school garden.
There are times when I don't recognize myself.
I have written suicide notes, then ripped them up because I knew no one would care enough to read them.

Post a bad secret in a comment.

Why Boobs Are Never TOO Big (also, the time I was molested at a Walmart)

I developed early.  Fifth grade, to be exact.  One second I was tiny, normal Dawn.  I had a pencil figure and due to crappy parents you could almost see my ribs.  Then, suddenly:

BOOM.  There they were, bouncing around.  Suddenly, people could tell if I got cold.  It sort of hurt whenever I jumped.  I felt weird, because the rest of my friends had tiny or no boobs, and I was already up to a B-cup.  Finally, I moved in with my grandmother, and my sister was kind enough to pass on to me her old sports bra.  It was the bra I wore for the next two years--it smashed me down to minimal size, which is just what I wanted--I was self-concious and a lot of the time I would be looking up quack-methods of shrinking my boobs--I even stopped eating for a week and only drank water in hopes of the starvation bringing them down in size.  But no, instead, I just ended up going to the bathroom a lot and gaining ten pounds when I began eating again.

By eighth grade, I wore baggy, thick clothes so that no one would know about my humiliation.  By then, I was a c-cup and had become slightly chubby.  No amount of dieting I did made any of the weight go away and because of it I became more insecure than I already was.  I hadn't been fitted by anyone besides a hispanic walmart lady with bad english, so, in a sense, I had never been fitted.  I was still wearing sports bras and hadn't even thought of underwire.

Finally, we went to walmart in the transition from 8th to 9th grade and I was walking around in the bra section.  The lady who had fitted me wasn't there, and I liked that because she made me feel awkward.

Just as I walked past the fitting section, I stopped for a moment to glance at the "teenager bras".  How menacing they all looked.  I glanced at them for only a second before I went to walk away, when I abruptly heard:

"Hey!  You!  With the short hair."  I turned around, and there she was.  The woman would would save my self-esteem.  She was made up only slightly, and was wearing a too-small button-up shirt over flare-legged jeans and she looked amazing.  She was giving me a presumptuous look and tapping her foot while she looked me up and down.

"What?"  I asked.  I was already having a bad day, I didn't need some complete stranger to tell me she could tell the temperature just by looking at my chest.  I gave her the biggest glare I could muster.  She rolled her eyes and guestered.  "Come over here.  You need some help."

I'm not sure why, but I obeyed her order and I walked over to her.  I don't even know if she was an employee there.  She took out a measuring tape from off the counter and told me to put my arms out at my sides.  I can't believe I let her measure me, but I did.  After two minutes, she put the measuring tape away.  "Come with me."  I followed her to the teenager bras again, and she stood by me and said "Pick the kind you like."

I glared at her for a second before I looked at the wall.  My eyes were assaulted with color--it felt like I had stepped into a hippy's hallucination.  Rainbow bras, red bras, blue bras, bras with color combinations I never thought looked good, lacy bras, sexy bras, training bras, and kid bras were in front of me and I was confused.  After a moment of searching, I pointed to a rack of underwire pink and blue striped bras.  She smiled.  "Excelent choice." and she grabbed one of them and shoved it at my chest.  "Try this on and come out."

Once in the dressing room, I took off my shirt, then my tank top.  I looked over at myself in the mirror.  I sighed, it was cold and I felt like crap just looking at myself.  My chest was huge, too big.  I took off the sports bra and fumbled around with the real bra until I figured out how the clasps worked.  Then I looked at myself in the mirror.

At first, all I really noticed was the color.  I liked it.  I thought it was cute.  Then I kept looking.  The more I saw, the more I liked.  My boobs weren't spilling over the cups.  They fit snugly, nicely.  I turned to the side.  It looked pretty.

I looked in the full body mirror, then, with a look of doubt, made the final test.  I jumped up and down, then gaped.  It didn't look stupid.  It wasn't a bounce-up-enough-to-hit-you-in-the-chin-and-hurt-you-when-you-come-back-down kind of bounce, it was a nice, slight, dare I say, sexy bounce.

It was there in that dressing room that I had the epiphany--Big boobs weren't horrible.  They weren't disgusting.  They were beautiful.  They were sexy.  I could use them to get what I wanted.  I could flirt.  I was sexy and beautiful.  For the first time, I felt pretty.

I put my other clothes back on and came out, a huge smile on my face.  I went to find the woman and thank her, but I never did.  She wasn't there, and I couldn't find her.  After that, I went into the clothing section and grabbed all the sexy tops that fit me.  My grandmother was ecstatic and flipped out when I dropped a teenager bra into the cart.  "You're growing up!"  She said.

Now, three years later, I'm a size D, going into the doubles.  Still haven't been professionally fitted, but that woman brought my self-esteem to new grounds.  My friends and I joke about the times I can be a tease, which I can.  To this day, I have flirted my way into hundreds of dollars of free merchandise, just for wearing a low-cut shirt.  I think of myself as sexy.  I think of myself as beautiful.

And you know what?  The back pain is totally worth it.

EDIT:  Okay, yesterday I went and got professionally fitted.  34DD!  Holy shit!

Truth is, guys...

...I'm not okay.

Last Monday I went over to my father's house, because after I babysit I usually hang out there until my grampa picks me up. I father lives with his girlfriend and her 10-year-old kid... The girlfriend is totally crazy. They got into a fight because my dad doesn't know when to shut his fucking mouth, and I got involved.

When I was younger and living with my parents, I would get in between my mom and dad when they fought. When I got in the middle of them, I would put my elbows out. They wouldn't be able to hurt each other when I did this. I got hurt a lot when I was little because of this, but it never really mattered to me as long as they were both okay.

So I had to do this with my dad and his girlfriend, and it got to the point where they were beating the shit out of each other and I kept having to pull them off of each other, and the 10-year-old, Marsha, was in the room as well. When the girlfriend, Barbara, came at my dad with knives, I called 911. They were both arrested, Barbara got out way quicker than my dad did, and the fight was over.

However, over the past week, I have been questioned by the police three times, cps once, my councilor once, my aunt, my grandfather, and my mother, and I've been asked to testify in court, if things should go that way. I've been able to go to Al-anon meetings with my grandfather for the past few weeks and they've been helping with my problems, but I'm being stretched way too thin these days. I'm tired and I just want to sleep, but I need to help take care of Marsha as well.

I know what it's like to be taken away from your parents at age 10. I know what it's like to be alone when you're just getting into training bras. I know what it's like to not have anyone to help you out. I don't want her to ever feel like that, and over the last six days I've been doing everything in my power to help her and Barbara out.

You may be asking, why Barb? Well, because I don't blame her. I've been wanting to stab my dad since I was in sixth grade and I hate him. Also, Barb needs help with her house and home lately anyway.

But I've been so screwed up because of this whole thing that I'm getting everything mixed up. I'm having more panic attacks than before, and I'm so tired.... my therapist asked me why I'm even going to school under all this stress. That sort of weirded me out. I need to get my school work done, I need to do this. She then asked me if she wanted my teachers to know the situation... I'm a little angry with that. I don't want special treatment.

For right now, for those who care, I'm pissed at the world and I need help.  Any advice from the non-masses?

New Years Reminds Me Of Mass Hysteria

What?  It does.

Since I was four my parents have coerced me into staying up WAY past my bedtime, then clinking a sippy-cup of Diet Sprite with them and a bunch of other adults while they all had champagne or beer when the clock struck twelve.  Then, I was ushered back to bed with no further explanation.  New year's eve wasn't something I really cared about until I was five.

December 25th, 2000, my grandmother told me that I would be allowed to have a toast with all the grown-ups this year from a big girl glass instead of a coffee mug like the year before.

Now, see, you think that sounds normal.  Yet when I was five, mind you, I thought "a toast" meant "we will have toast." Real toast.  At midnight.  And when I was five, toast was my favorite food.  I ate toast like a dog eats bacon.  I seriously loved it. 

So, of course, I got really, really excited for new years.  My parents saw this new excitement and dismissed it that I was excited for the new year.  But I wasn't.  I was just excited for toast at midnight.  I thought it was some sort of amazing feat to eat toast past bedtime and if I did it I would magically grow wings or something.

In preparation for this amazing, awesome occurance in my life, I went without toast for a whole six days (or however long it is from Christmas to New Years, I just woke up).   This was super hard for me, but I thought it would be worth it in the end.  I thought that this midnight-toast would be the most delicious toast EVER.


So, at 11:57 on December 31st of 1999, when I saw people pouring glasses rather than sticking bread in a toaster, I began to worry.  And at midnight, when I was handed a glass of sparkling cider, I asked my mommy when we would be having toast.  She told me that we were having it now and helped me raise my glass along with everyone else.  I looked around and saw no toast.  I asked again.  She looked at me, confused, and I asked a third time.

She finally understood the question, and she slowly and calmly told me that there would, in fact, be no toast.

Then I cried.

For a few years they invited me down for New Years, but I never came down, instead I watched the fireworks from my room and brooded for five minutes.  After a while I came down again, and now I always get super excited for my own New Years Toast.

And, yes, it is delicious.

Christmas Decorating Is The Pinacle Of Evil

Black Friday is not black friday for me.  For me, it's the day to sleep in till eleven, then decorate for Christmas.

Ah, Christmas.  The pinacle of winter for most children.... Unless you do Hanuka, of course.... but anyway.  Today I woke up at ten thirty because the rest of my family had gone out at four in the morning (Which is INSANE, by the way) to go Christmas shopping.  They were back by seven thirty. 

So my mom came over (I live with my grampa.  Pathetic, no?)  and I came downstairs to my little brother wrapping the last present, the biggest one he "Got"  ....Mine.  Of course I'd already figured out that all he did was take my legos, put them in a box and wrap them up (I'd talked before of how much I wanted Legos)... It sort of made me angry.

I'm not a materialistic person.  It just pisses me off that my brother had the nerve to not only NOT buy me a present, but to take what was mine already and attempt to pass it off as an act of good will.  But I guess my knowledge of the upcoming XBox 360 helps to improve the mood.  I'm going to try my hardest to get everyone, including my friends, gifts.... Maybe I'll just take Jeffrey's soccer cleats away and wrap those up, hm?  That seems like a good idea at the moment.

Grampa told us all that if we got him anything he'd take away our presents.  I think he's the opposite of the materialistic guy.

Christmas decorating is a sport in my house.  There are three kids, so three kids means three trees.  We put the gifts under one tree and the other two are for decoration... I've just been informed that I am to do the "Toy tree" this year.  That's the toy-themed one:  The one with toy ornaments, toy garland, toy tinsel, toy everything.  Not quite sure yet where in the house it's going to be put.

The trees fall under three categories every year:  Toy tree, white tree, and Christmas tree.  The toy tree is mine, the White tree is Lisa's (Jeff and I always hate the white tree) and the Christmas tree is Jeffrey's.  Figures he gets the extravagent one.  Ten dollars says he throws a fit halfway through and quits.  He does it every freaking year. 

Can't wait till the boxes come down. 

A short introduction of sorts.

Hi there.  You're probably only skimming now, so feel free to start actually reading at any time.

I have no idea what this blog is going to be.  All I know is that I want to start one.  And I will tell you stories, and show you cool stuff, and hopefully someone will pay attention.  In the next few paragraphs I will illustrate why I chose this blog title, for future reference

I am not a perfect pretty girl.  I'm 16 years old, female, 164 pounds (at the moment) and I'm five feet and two inches.  I'm mostly German so I have a huge bulky frame and a wide face.  Sometimes I hate it.  Sometimes I love it.

But my most distinguished feature is the boobs.  That's right, those fleshy mounds men and women find so attractive.  Well, I has them.  -makes a face-  Sometimes I don't like them.  Sometimes they can get me shit I want.  Sometimes they just PISS ME OFF.  But I have to live with them. 

The other part of my title:  Pockey.  I am an anime freak.  I go to conventions, I cosplay, and I fangirl over the dumbest shit possible.  Pockey is is pretty much my favorite candy ever in the world in the history of the universe.  

The love part you can figure out for yourself.

This will be random.  This will be amazing.  This will be the lazy-crazy-daily documentation of my life. No details will be spared, no events will be passed over and no subject will go overlooked. Hopefully I can enjoy myself.